


Get Where You're Going

by littlerhymes



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, 2016-2017 NBA Season, Angry Sex, Closeted Character, Friends With Benefits, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes
Summary: Sometimes Kevin wishes he'd never found out about Kyle and DeMar, never  realised that what they had was even an option.The aftermath of Kevin's decision to leave OKC and Russell.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nahco3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/gifts).



> Thank you to SQ (proteinscollide) for being an awesome beta reader as always; and thank you for all the friends who were so supportive while I was writing this, especially Greenet.

AUGUST 2016 - RIO DE JANEIRO - SUMMER OLYMPICS

After dinner the team hangs out, shooting the shit and playing cards till it's late. It's quiet on the ship, but outside there's the beach and the glittering lights of Rio, the faint hum of voices and music and cars carrying across the water. Kevin can see others already eyeing the clock, biding their time. 

It's close to midnight when Jimmy finally throws down his hand, stretching as he says, "Yeah, I'm out. Who's coming with me?" There's a chorus of agreement.

"You're in, right?" Boogie says to Kevin, arm around his shoulders, grinning wide as about half the room starts following Jimmy's lead. "C'mon. It's gonna be fun. Brazilian clubs, Brazilian rum..."

Kevin makes a show of thinking about it, but it honestly sounds like too much effort, the humidity and lingering jetlag making him drowsy. "Nah. Next time, maybe."

"You're getting old, man," Boogie says, but shrugs and ambles away without pushing it further, yelling to DeAndre to wait up. 

Within moments the ship is quieter, emptier. Kevin's halfway back to his cabin when he remembers his headphones. Swearing under his breath, he doubles back towards the common room.

He hears them before he sees them, Kyle's voice pitched low followed hard by DeMar's laugh, and it's nothing unusual, nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times before so he turns the corner without missing a beat. 

It's a huge mistake.

"Well, shit," Kyle says, deadpan, his hand still halfway down DeMar's pants. "Hey KD."

DeMar's not so chill. He shoves Kyle away with both hands and turns his back to Kevin as he zips his fly, muttering, "Damn, Kyle, I told you, we should've waited -"

"Didn't exactly hear you saying no," Kyle shoots back. "In fact I'm pretty sure you said -"

"Okay then!" Kevin says, a little too loudly, before Kyle keeps saying whatever he was going to say.

They break off from their bickering and look over, slightly startled, as though they'd momentarily forgotten he was even there. 

Shaking his head, Kevin takes two big strides over to the card table, snatches up his headphones, and then starts backing out of the room, hands in the air. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, I didn't see anything, I didn't hear anything, okay? I'm just gonna -" he points back over his shoulder. "Go."

"Okay," Kyle says, drawing the word out long. "You do that."

Kevin's never left a room so fast in his life. Even so, he's not even turned the corner when he hears Kyle and DeMar start to laugh. He shakes his head and walks a little faster.

 

Nothing changes after that. Training goes on as usual, their team bonding sessions and nights out in Rio go on as usual.

Nothing's changed, except that now Kevin knows what to look out for and now that he sees it, he can't unsee it. Kyle and DeMar are acting the same as they did last week, the same as last month and all last season before and the season before that too. But now he knows what it really means and honestly he's starting to wonder how he ever missed it in the first place.

They're just so - 

(like Kyle casually plucking the tomato slices off his plate and putting them on DeMar's, and DeMar backhugging Kyle during an interview, and the way they practically play footsie during a video session, or how both of them huddle around an ipad facetiming with their kids, _both_ their kids...)

\- they're just so fucking _obvious_.

Even before Jason Collins, he knew there were guys like that in the league, in his college team, maybe even high school. But it's one thing to know that there's some guys who occasionally hook up with other guys, and another thing entirely for, well, for those guys to be Kyle and DeMar.

He watches them from across the room, the way DeMar puts his arm around Kyle's shoulders. No one gives them a second glance, no one even thinks to look a little harder. He doesn't get it. 

Just at that moment, Kyle looks over. Kevin glances away just a beat too late, Kyle frowning in his direction. Kevin ducks his head; then stands and makes his excuses, leaves the conversation he was barely taking part in anyway. 

They're the ones who're hiding something, he reminds himself. So why does he feel like he's the one who just got caught?

 

He's expecting Kyle to be the one who confronts him - the hothead, the loudmouth, the punchy one. But it's DeMar who tracks him down early the next morning when they're the first two in the gym.

"Let's go," DeMar says by way of greeting. He passes the ball, and Kevin catches on instinct. "One on one."

It's just practice, just two guys playing around, but DeMar doesn't hold back - he's the kind of guy who takes every practice seriously. Usually Kevin would be all over that, would be giving as hard as he got, loving the sense of testing and being tested. 

Instead he hangs back, his feet heavy, and lets himself get shoved around the court like he never would in a real game or even a real practice. After blowing past him and scoring easily for his fourth basket in a row, DeMar just stops. He frowns. "What are you doing, man? You gonna take this seriously or what?"

Kevin rubs the back of his neck. "I am, I'm just…"

DeMar gives him the side-eye. "Come on, man. You can just say it. This is about me and Kyle, isn't it? You've been acting so strange this past week. And now you can't even respect me enough to play me for real?" He shakes his head, throws the ball down hard on the court and lets it bounce away. "Damn, KD."

"No, it's not - that's not it." Looks down at his feet, looks anywhere but DeMar. He can feel his throat closing up because he can sense the question that's coming.

"We thought you were cool." DeMar shakes his head again. "Look, I'm gonna say I'm disappointed, honestly I am. If this is gonna be an issue then -"

"It's not like that," he says, forcing the words out. "I'm not, you know, I'm not mad or disgusted or anything like that. I'm - "

He tries. He honestly tries. But he just can't say it.

"Yeah? Then what the hell is your problem?" DeMar says, all up in his face now, oblivious to the fact he's having a meltdown. "Come on, man. Just spit it out. Say whatever you wanna say and we'll have it out right here."

Say it. Just say it.

Kevin takes a deep breath and suddenly feels like he's gonna throw up, like his heart is gonna beat out of his chest. Feels like he's gonna choke on his own words. He goes down to his haunches, head between his knees, hands behind his head. 

"Hey, hey, hey," DeMar says, switching fast from aggression to concern, his hand on Kevin's back. "Just breathe. Breathe. In and out. Alright then, alright. You okay now?"

When he can finally catch his breath, Kevin lets out a shaky laugh. "Nah," he says finally, looking up at DeMar. "Nah, I'm not."

 

He doesn't say the words out loud in the end. But he doesn't have to - DeMar gets it, gets why he's so fucked up about this. 

They end up sitting side by side at the edge of the court, legs stretched out in front of them. DeMar spins a basketball on his fingertip, and they watch it in silence until it topples and falls into the palm of his hand.

"How do you do it?" Kevin says, shaking his head. "How do you stay together when there's so much..." He trails off.

"So much what?" DeMar says. 

"You know," he says, still embarrassed, still looking around as though someone could be lurking underneath those bleachers. He shakes his head. "There's just so - there's all this - I mean, what happens if people find out? Aren't you scared about what could happen?"

"Course I am," DeMar says instantly. "You think we haven't talked about it? Thought about it? Hell, man, we think about it all the time. How many sponsors do we lose? How do teams think about us when we go into free agency? What kind of shit are we going to have to deal with on the regular from media, from fans? Yeah. Course I'm scared."

"Then why. Then how -"

"Because it's worth it," DeMar says. "If it happens, then it happens. We deal with it. We get through it. But." He shrugs. "I'm not gonna waste too much of my time worrying about something that might never come."

He should leave it but - 

"What if everything goes to shit," Kevin says instead. Part of him is dogged about this, wants to force DeMar to admit that maybe he and Kyle are making a mistake. And part of him just wants to shut up and walk away, thinks maybe he won't like the answer he's forcing DeMar to give... "Like your career, your image, all of that. I mean. You're taking a huge, huge fucking risk."

"I know, and I don't care," DeMar says. "If it happens then we deal with it. But until then, I'm not changing a thing. I'm happy. What we got together - I mean, sometimes you just gotta take that risk, you know?" He's not looking directly at Kevin anymore, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. He's almost smiling. "Sometimes you take that chance."

 _You think I care?_ He has a sudden sharp, clear memory of Russell saying, _You think I give a fuck about what other people got to say? You're the one who's too scared to-_

"How do you know?" Kevin says, willing the memory away. "How do you know it's worth it?" 

"I dunno, man. I just do." DeMar shakes his head. He looks back at Kevin, his expression softer now, almost pitying. "Sometimes you just know."

And sometimes, Kevin thinks, sometimes you don't.

 

SEPTEMBER 2016 - LOS ANGELES - OFFSEASON

He heads back to the States, the gold medal heavy in his bag. 

Los Angeles is a big city but there's only a finite number of places to go when you're an NBA star trying to work out during the offseason. Kevin ends up hanging around at just about all of them, mostly catching up with Team USA members and other old friends.

He realises, after his fourth gym and yet another pick-up game, that maybe he's also hoping to run into Russell. 

Every now and then he looks at their message thread on his phone. There's his message from July, split over three texts he'd agonised over for hours, explaining his decision and all the reasons why it was best for him to leave OKC for Golden State; followed by Russ' two-line reply. 

Since then he's sent a few messages, here and there, carefully neutral. There's never any reply. 

Eight years of history, and it ends just like that.

Since Rio, he's been trying to send a new message. Every now and then he'll get as far as typing it out, but each time straight away he erases it before he can work up the guts to hit 'send'.

He's starting to think phones aren't the answer here. Maybe it would be easier if he could just stumble into Russ at some gym somewhere. Catch him doing hill runs on the sand dunes with his trainer. Or playing pick-up with some kids from Drew League. Somewhere public and casual, so that Kevin could just stroll up and say, _Hey, Russ, how you doing?_

And then Russ can look up and say -

This is where his imagination always shorts out. 

He's only fooling himself if he thinks being somewhere public is gonna stop Russ from doing exactly whatever he wants to do. If Russ wants to give him the cold shoulder, or if Russ wants to pick a fight - it'll happen, no matter where they are or who's watching.

What does he even want from Russell anyway? The deal is done, the contracts are signed. Coach Kerr called him yesterday and talked him through their plans for training camp. Nike's already started work on a whole new marketing campaign, and his manager said something about getting an emoji. What's left for them to say to each other, except to hash out the same old arguments over again?

Or maybe the problem is just the opposite - that there's too much they never said, never even came close to saying.

He finishes up the pick-up game (daps all round, selfies with the kids, an autograph scribbled here and there) before heading back to his apartment. In years past his place would never be empty, friends and friends of friends always around to keep him company, take him clubbing, keep the party going. But he's making a fresh start this year, a new leaf for his new team, so this time there's none of that. The apartment is quiet and still, no sound in the house except the water hissing down the drain as he washes away the sweat of the day.

Afterwards he walks through the empty rooms, drifts over to the counter and picks up his keys, finds himself in his car and heading south. 

It's dark by the time he ends up parked at the beach where they spent one summer working out, side by side, running drills on the dunes until even their trainer yelled at them to knock it off for the day. Now, in the dusk, it's almost empty and there's no one close enough to see the NBA superstar sitting down with his feet in the sand, Nike trainers tossed to the side.

That summer, after the day's work out, usually he'd head back to his apartment with its neverending party. Walk into the room and get dapped up by everyone and their brother, music blaring, inevitably ending up with a drink in his hand and a gorgeous girl on his lap. The usual.

Sometimes, though, sometimes they'd go back to Russell's place. A beach house on the water, away from the hustle of LA because Russell had gotten used to quiet, acclimatised to the wide streets and clear skies of Oklahoma City. Hardly any neighbours. Too far from the road for the paps.

They never talked about why they went there, never spelled it out, but the evenings would inevitably end up at roughly the same place, getting each other off with their hands, their mouths.

The nights always concluded the same way too - Kevin getting dressed in the dark because they hadn't bothered to turn the lights on again; Russ on the rumpled bed, or slumped on the couch, watching him leave. 

The next day they'd both show up to training, as though the last night had never even happened. Because that's all it was, right? Just a guy hooking up with another guy, just something that happened from time to time. Nothing to get excited about, nothing they'd ever talk about out loud in the light of day. And that's all it would ever be.

Out on the beach, Kevin hunches deeper into his hoodie. The breeze coming off the water is cold as cold. 

He remembers one time he'd rolled out of bed as usual when suddenly Russ had spoken up in the dark from behind him.

 _You don't have to go_ , Russ said. _You can stay if you want._

He'd pretended not to hear. Pretended he was busy looking for his keys. 

Kevin thinks maybe it would've been better if he'd never gone back for his headphones that night in Rio, never walked in on Kyle and DeMar. If he'd never realised that what they had was even an option, a possibility. 

"Fuck this," Kevin mutters, and stands up, brushing sand from his shorts and legs. He gets back in his car and drives back to his place at record speed.

The next day he gets the call from his manager, saying his place in the Bay is ready and he can move in whenever he wants. It couldn't come at a better time. By then Kevin's had more than enough of Los Angeles. Honestly, he can't wait to get the fuck away from it.

 

NOVEMBER 2016 - OAKLAND - OKC @ GSW

The official line is that this is a game like any other game.

That's some bullshit.

Before the game, the team is more attentive to him than usual, more careful to draw him right into the centre of the huddle. "We're gonna get this one for you, man," Steph says quietly, hand on his back, "we're gonna get it." 

Draymond, much louder, says something that can't be repeated on national television and everyone cracks right up.

They're not quite close enough to be called his brothers, not quite yet - but he feels a rush of affection and gratitude that buoys him up right up until he steps onto the court for warm-ups and sees the opposing team.

It's - it's disorientating. Seeing old teammates in the familiar old unis, except that instead of looking up and calling him over, their eyes just slide right past as though he doesn't exist; Steven muttering something to Enes that has them both bursting into a laugh that sounds, to Kevin, a little ugly. It's like looking through a one-way mirror, like seeing a version of your life where all traces of your existence have been carefully erased. 

He scans the arena, jittery, waiting to see that one person. And there he is… And there he goes. Russell walks right by him, without ever turning his head. 

Preparation is meant to be the best defence.

It still fucking stings.

"Hey," Klay says, startling him. "Coach wants us in the huddle."

"Yeah," he manages to say. "Yeah. I'll be right there." He turns back before he goes. Catches a glimpse of Russell's back for his trouble.

Just a game like any other game. Yeah right.

But he's not gonna be the guy who cracks under pressure. He knew this is what it would be like, the moment he picked up the phone and made the call to Bob Myers. Every game against OKC, for the rest of his life, will be a statement about both his future and his past, whether he likes it or not.

He squares his shoulders. Gets ready.

 

Afterwards, in the locker room - Coach Kerr giving both measured praise and critique, but grinning a pleased grin - Kevin sags onto his bench with a sigh, towel over his head. 

As far as wins go, this one is both sweeter and more sober than most. Even dropping 39 doesn't bring the same swag to his step that it would on any other day. Mostly what he feels is relief - like a weight lifted right off his shoulders. 

The buzzing in his head that says _you made the wrong choice, you fucked it up, you're disloyal, you ran away_ \- well. It's never completely quiet. Maybe never will be. But he knows he made the right career decision, that being with the Warriors is letting him play some of the best basketball he's ever played. 

In that sense, this W feels like validation.

"They never explain this part when you sign the contract, huh?" Andre says, in the moments before the media starts filing into the locker room. "What it's like. Being on the other side for the first time."

"Never," Kevin says, with a sigh that turns into a laugh. "Never wanna do that again."

"Well, you did ok." Andre slaps him on the arm. "You're gonna be alright, KD."

 

And yet. 

For all the relief, the satisfaction, he leaves the arena that night feeling like there's still unfinished business. His phone itching in his pocket as he thinks about Russell looking through him as though he wasn't there…

He goes home, paces, can't wind down. Tries to get his mind off things, finds himself scrolling through game recaps and watching highlight reels instead. Finds himself sending a string of messages, one after another and another.

Which brings him to 3am, rolling up to the Four Seasons - where he knows OKC stays every time, without fail - in a car with darkened windows. He wouldn't be here, he says to himself, if Russell would just answer one of those dozen messages.

(He wouldn't be here, he doesn't say, if he'd made a different choice…)

It's 3am but if he knows anything about Russell at all, it's that he'll still be awake. So he hits 'call'. Hears it ring, and ring, and -

"What?" Russell says. It's a hell of a way to break a five-month silence.

"Hey," Kevin says after a moment. His mouth is suddenly completely dry, his head shot clear of words. He kinda wishes, too late, that he'd thought this through a little harder.

"What the fuck?" Russ says, sounding far more alert than Kevin feels. "You know what time it is. I've got a morning flight."

"You weren't sleeping anyway," Kevin points out, before realising this is probably the wrong tack to take. "Look," he says. "Can we just talk?"

"Fine," Russ snaps. "You have three minutes. Go."

"Not like this," Kevin says. "I'm. Well. I'm downstairs. You're at the Four Seasons, right?"

Russ is silent for a long time before he says, "You've got to be fucking with me." 

"Let me come up," he says in a rush, "just gimme a few minutes, just - "

"Fine, fucking fine. Room 833." Then he hangs up. 

 

It doesn't start well.

"I've been thinking a lot," Kevin says, trying to put the words together, but he can't get his thoughts in order now that he's confronted with Russell, the real actual presence of him with his hackles all up, mouth in a tight line, bare arms folded. He stands with his back against the curtained window, and he looks good - really good - in a thin white top and sweatpants, feet bare against the thick carpet. 

Kevin tries to focus, he does, but all of it comes out jumbled, bits and pieces of the dozen stock phrases he's memorised for interviews. "I can't be sorry about what I decided, I'm not sorry for walking away. It was the right thing for my career, for my life."

"Geez," Russ says flatly.

"But I'm sorry for how I told you. I shouldn't have messaged you like that." Kevin starts to pace up and down the room. "I should've, fuck, should've gone to see you. Should've told you in person, man to man." He comes to a stop in front of Russell.

"Great. Glad we're on the same page." Russ tilts his chin up, looks up at Kevin with a challenging stare. Under the room's dim lights, his eyes are dark and hooded. "That all you came to say?"

"I don't regret anything," Kevin says. "Except..." 

Except. He swallows. Takes a step closer.

The truth is he didn't tell Russ in person because he was scared. Scared of the inevitable fight, the confrontation, the harsh words. But scared of himself too - knowing he'd be too weak to stop himself from reaching out for one more taste, one last touch. Like this, like now, his hands twisting the soft cotton of Russ' top. 

All this time, all these years telling himself it was just because Russ was someone he trusted, someone who was convenient and available and there. He can admit to himself now that that's not it. That it's Russ, just Russ, who he wants like this.

He presses forward, gives Russ every chance to stop this, but Russ doesn't pull away, doesn't resist as he leans down and brings their mouths together. Russ opens his mouth, lets him in easily, but gives back as good as he gets. He kisses hard enough to bruise, nips at Kevin's lower lip with his teeth, pulls Kevin in closer with his hand at his hip. Kevin works his thigh between Russ' and Russ grinds up against him.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it," Russ says roughly, when they break apart, when Kevin drops to his knees. "This is really what you came for." 

Russ is half-hard already when he tugs his sweats down past his thighs, gets harder still in Kevin's hand and then his mouth. Kevin doesn't struggle when he feels Russ' hand on the back of his head, forcing him to take him in deeper, then deeper still. He shuts his eyes, gets lost in the taste and weight and feel of him, the smell of him, lets himself get overwhelmed.

Russ doesn't warn him when he's about to come; lets him choke on it, swallow down as much as he can and then spit the rest into his hand. He guesses he should have expected that. 

Russ pulls his sweats back up, then tugs Kevin to his feet. "Come on," he says, and pushes Kevin into the bathroom. 

When he's still bent over the sink after washing his hands and rinsing out his mouth, he sees Russ in the mirror, standing behind him and then pressing up close against his back. He doesn't dare move, doesn't dare say a word as Russ reaches around and undoes his fly. 

Russ brings him off like that, his hand slick with hotel lotion, looking at him in the mirror the whole time. It's Kevin who looks away in the end, closing his eyes as he comes.

Afterwards he leans against the countertop, shakily zips himself up and tries to pull himself together.

"You say what you needed to say?" Russ says, turning off the faucet and drying his hands. His anger is tamped down now, his face and voice schooled strictly neutral, as though all they really did was talk. Kevin wishes, irritated, that Russ looked half as wrecked as he felt. 

"Well," Kevin says, his voice still ragged. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Yeah? Then I guess we're done." Russ gestures at the door. 

That's it? "No, wait," Kevin says, straightening up now. He puts his hand on Russell's arm and counts it a small victory when Russ stares at it, but doesn't shrug it away. "It's just - I just miss talking to you, you know."

Russ gives him a look and says, very slowly, "We aren't on the same team anymore, remember? We don't play each other again until _January_." 

"But if I message you - if I call - are you just gonna keep ignoring me?" He doesn't want to plead, doesn't want to sound desperate. Then again, remembering with a wince the messages he'd sent prior to driving over here, it's probably too late for that.

Russ just shrugs. "You can send 'em," he says at last, looking away. "You can call. No guarantee I'll reply but sure, go ahead."

That's as good as he's gonna get tonight. "Okay then." He drops his hand back to his side, feeling cautiously optimistic.

"Now get out of my room," Russ says, though the words don't have the same sting to them they would've had an hour ago. "I got a flight in three hours."

 

The next day, he sends Russell a message. Nothing personal, just a link to YouTube, showing a slam in the D-League that's impressive by any standard.

Russ doesn't reply. But a couple days after that, he sends a link back - Metta World Peace, shouting _I love basketball!_

So it's a start.

 

FEBRUARY 2017 - OKLAHOMA CITY - GSW @ OKC

The boo birds start the moment he sets foot in Chesapeake Arena, and never really die away. Kevin tries to shut out the noise, the heckling, the signs being waved from every stand but it's basically impossible. Just eight months ago, he'd been a hero here, a demigod. Inducted into the Hall of Fame, a guaranteed jersey number retiree, given all but the keys to the city… 

It's not true to say that they hate him now as much as they once loved him. There are cheers as well as boos, and the home team runs a respectful video montage on the jumbotron. It just _feels_ like they all hate him. The shouting of the crowd sounds like every negative thought, every doubt he's ever had about the decision, all in his ear at once.

But there's nothing he can do about that now. He made a choice and he'll be living with it for the rest of his career, maybe even his life. He can't ignore the boos, can't react to them either.

All he can do is play.

 

Getting a taxi or a hired car to Russ' house is going to cause more questions than it's worth, so he messages Russ asking if he wants to meet up at his hotel. The last time their teams played, back in January, there'd been no time, so he doesn't want to miss this chance.

'Just to talk or whatever,' he adds, erasing and deleting the 'whatever' part about a hundred times. He hits 'send', feeling kinda nervous.

It's not as though Russ is gonna ignore him. Even at games, Russ doesn't completely blank him anymore. They're not back to dapping each other up - can't imagine that would go down well with either of their homecrowds anyway - but he gives Kevin a kind of nod when they meet on court. Maybe, Kevin thinks, they'll even graduate to trash talking one another next time they play.

Off the court they've been keeping in touch pretty constantly, their message thread active every day or two. They mostly keep it light, talking sneakers and NFL and college hoops. Sometimes he gives Russ shit about his latest outfit and sometimes Russ slings it right back. He gives sincere congratulations to Russ when he goes on his triple-double streak, and Russ seems to accept it in good faith.

It's all the easy things, the little things, the parts of their friendship he'd taken for granted until they were gone and which are slowly growing back again. 

But this - this blatant invitation - this is new. Asking for it instead of just letting it happen. '...or whatever.' He can be honest with himself enough to admit that he's hanging out for the _whatever_. He waits at his bench in the locker room, foot jittering, staring into space.

His phone buzzes. 

Russ: 'yeah ok'

 

"Didn't see you last night after the game, KD. And you were late getting on the bus today," Klay says casually on their way back to the airport the next morning. "What's the story? You have a girl here none of us know about?" 

"Course he does," Draymond scoffs before Kevin can think of a response. "How long was he living here? Dude probably has more girls here then you've had your whole life." Klay just rolls his eyes.

"Nah," Kevin says at last, his heart thudding like the game ended twelve minutes instead of twelve hours ago. This is just what they do, he reminds himself, they don't mean anything by it. No one knows about him and Russ. "I'm not exactly Mr Popular around here anymore, you know what I mean?"

Klay laughs, shrugs. "That's their loss." 

The moment passes.

All through the flight back to the Bay, he can't stop thinking about how he'd felt in that long moment when he thought the team had somehow found out Russ had stayed half the night in his room, that they'd fooled around, that they'd been doing this off and on for the past six or seven years. How rapidly his mind had flicked through the possibilities - a reporter saw them, a hotel staffer snapped a photo, what if Russ accidentally let it slip - and how terrified he was at the prospect.

He remembers DeMar and his shrug, the way he'd balanced risk and reward and decided the scales all tipped in one's favour, and can't imagine ever feeling that sanguine.

But then he thinks about Russ, the strength in his hands, his thighs, the softness of his mouth; the way he rolled his eyes at Kevin's dumb jokes, his frown in the mirror as he fixed up his outfit just so, even though he wasn't planning to be seen leaving ("gotta keep it fresh, okay, this is a matter of principle") - and he can't imagine giving that up completely either. 

He'll just have to be more careful. 

 

FEBRUARY 2017 - NEW ORLEANS - ALL STAR WEEKEND

For the first time since the 2016 playoffs, Kevin and Russ are in the same locker room, the same unis, the same side. At the first Western Conference team practice, there's a little short, still moment when everyone waits to see how they react when they meet each other on the practice court.

Ignoring the tension, Russ just walks right over, daps him up, and says, "Bet I can still beat you one on one." 

"Bring it," Kevin says, with a laugh. "I'll buy you dinner if I lose."

There's a kind of collective sigh of relief, an exhale. Then Coach Kerr claps his hands, says, "alright everyone," and everything goes back to normal. Kevin doesn't know whether to be glad or disappointed that they still have everyone fooled, that they really thought he and Russ were gonna get into it right there in the gym.

(He does end up buying Russ dinner that night, and everyone knows it. After dinner they go back to Kevin's room, and no one knows about that.)

On court, they work as well together as they ever did. A little rusty at first but the gears soon crunch back into place. They're not a perfect fit - they never have been, never will be - but they're too talented not to be able to make it work.

Most of all, it feels right. Feels familiar and good to be on the receiving end of another no-look pass from Russ for the oop, to be on his feet cheering another furious slam from Russ. 

This, here on the court, the hustle of the game - this has always been the one thing they always agreed on. When they run up the court and make a basket off another fast break, he catches Russ' eye and they're both grinning so hard, so caught up in wanting to win, even in a game as meaningless as this. 

After the game he catches Russ around the neck and hangs over him all the way back to the locker room, and Russ doesn't shrug him off but just leans right back into his side - though they both know NBA Twitter is gonna have a field day breaking down their every interaction.

"Let them talk," Russ says, scoffing, but smiling. "Like I give a shit."

 

That final night in New Orleans they go back to Kevin's room again. They still have to be careful, still don't want to get caught, but this weekend has been the most time they've spent together since the 2016 playoffs and they've made the most of it.

Maybe that's why it's so intense this time, maybe it's why he blurts out, without particularly meaning to, "I want to fuck you."

Russ goes still and quiet beneath him. He thinks _fuck fuck fuck, I've fucked this up_ , before Russ says, "Okay." When Kevin doesn't say anything, doesn't move, Russ punches him lightly in the shoulder, scowling. "Do I have to say it again? Okay, let's do it."

He doesn't need to be told a third time.

He's done this before, but it's different with a guy. It's different with Russell. It's not great at first, and he almost stops until Russ snaps at him, "It's fucking fine, just do it slower." It's not great, until suddenly it is. It's overwhelming and new and almost too much when Russ gasps, "yes, do that again," because Kevin did that, because Kevin made him feel that good. 

But it's more than that, more than the way Russ clenches hot and tight around his cock, more than how they kiss sloppily, teeth clashing, and leave marks in each other's skin. It's how Russ pulls him in afterwards, drawing him in for a kiss that lingers. How they rest like that, foreheads touching, side by side. 

For a long moment Russ just looks at him, his thumb rubbing across the line of Kevin's mouth. For a moment he thinks, yeah, he could get used to this...

Until Russ says, "What the fuck are we doing, Kevin?" His voice cracks a little. "What do you want from - from this?"

Kevin can't help from tensing up. What does he want? Jesus. Where does he even start? He heard the words Russ nearly tripped over, the 'us' that he swallowed back at the last minute. 

_How do you know when it's worth it?_ The question he'd asked DeMar half a year ago, and he still doesn't know the answer any more than he did then.

"Yeah, I thought so," Russ says when the silence stretches out and Kevin doesn't say a word. He sits up as though to leave.

Kevin finds his voice again just in time, reaching for Russ' wrist. "Don't go," he says. "Not yet." 

Russ jerks his wrist out of reach. "Fuck off."

"Look." Kevin sits up too. He runs his hands over his head, frustrated. "I don't know what you want me to say. If you're still mad at me about leaving OKC -"

"Of course I'm still mad. I wanted you to stay," Russ says, looking at him incredulously. "I asked you to stay. You're the one that left. You're the one who was too scared to stay, too scared to even try -"

"Stay for what?" Kevin says, getting mad himself. "Huh? Stay so we could get our ass kicked by some better team in the playoffs? Stay waiting another four years for them to draft someone good again?"

"Yes," Russ says, as though it's obvious. As though it's that simple and clear and easy. "Yes, yes, yes. And maybe we would've lost again, maybe we would've gotten beat - "

"You _know_ we'd have gotten beat - "

"But at least we would've tried together," Russ shouts. "We could've _been_ together."

Oh, Kevin thinks. Fuck. 

"But that's never what you wanted, huh?" Russ says, bitter now. "You never even wanted to hear it. Every damn time, you shut me down."

"Every time…" Kevin repeats blankly. 

Thinking back to all the times Russ said, _you can stay_. The times when he'd been so wound up with tension, so certain they were gonna get caught, and Russ had just shrugged and said, _fuck it, it's gonna be fine_. 

Ever since Rio, Kevin has been trying to figure out if this is something he wants. Russ has been trying to get there the whole time.

"You still can't handle talking about this. Not even when there's no one else around." He shakes his head. "You know what, fuck this. You made your choice and I'm not having this argument now." He gets out of bed, starts pulling on his clothes.

"Wait," Kevin says. 

"And don't bother calling me again. Find someone else to fuck." Russ picks up his shoes, not bothering to put them on, and slams the door behind him.

 

JUNE 2017 - NBA FINALS - OAKLAND

He's dreamed about winning the championship, let the feeling sustain him through long hours of training and drills, through the bitterness of failures and defeats. 

The reality is so much better.

From the moment Klay sinks the dagger three through to the trophy presentation, the presser on the podium, and the champagne-soaked celebration in the locker room, it's all one adrenaline-fuelled, confetti-studded blur.

At one point he cries, one arm cradled around the Larry O'Brien and the other around his mom.

At another point Draymond grabs him around the waist and lifts him up, spins him around, sets him down again and then goes pelting off to (attempt to) do the same to JaVale.

He doesn't think he's ever felt a high like this. He doesn't think he's ever been part of a better team than this one.

But - but still, in the middle of it all, the jubilation and relief and swagger, he can't help wishing there was one more person here to share in it.

Somewhere in between the cigars and the champagne, before they all pile into cars and head out for the afterparty, he finds a moment to grab his phone. There's a thousand unread notifications on there, congratulations from half the known world, but those can wait for now.

Four months since Russ walked out on him, and he can't stop thinking about that last conversation. Four months, but it's the first time he's tried to call. 

The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Goes to voicemail.

"Russ," he says, all croaky still from crying. "Russ, I did it. I fucking did it." 

From down the hallway there's a massive cheer and he has to stop talking, shuffling further down the hall in a vain attempt to find somewhere quieter. 

"I just wish - I wish we could've done it together." He laughs, swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Guess that's what you were trying to say all along, huh?" 

"Kevin," someone shouts. "Kevin, get off the phone and get back here, we're taking photos!"

"I gotta go," he says in a rush. "I'm sorry, Russ. Just - could you call me?"

 

JULY 2017 - LOS ANGELES - OFFSEASON

Like he did last summer, he drives down to the beach where they used to train. But this time he's not just hoping to run into Russ by accident.

Russ is already there, leaning against the hood of his car, shades on against the glare of the sun. He slips them up and onto the top of his head when Kevin walks over, then shoves his hands back into his pockets.

"Hey," Kevin says. "You came," he says, and doesn't try to disguise his relief.

Russ shrugs. "Yeah." His eyes flick between Kevin and the water, back and forth, jittery as though he doesn't exactly know where to look. They settle at last on the ball tucked under Kevin's arm. "You wanna play?"

There's a court nearby, where they'd play pick-up and shoot hoops against neighbourhood kids during breaks. There's no one there now to watch as they go one-on-one. 

They take it slow at first, feeling each other out, neither willing to go as hard as they can. 

But they're both competitive animals at heart. After trading a couple of buckets back and forth, suddenly Russ does a quick little spin move that wrongfoots him, gets him off balance and cussing. Russ scores the layup and then turns back at him, grinning, and after that it's on.

Russ gets him in the end, first to 11, but it's a close one. Afterwards they sit on the grass, breathing hard. Russ lifts his shirt up, wipes the sweat from his face with the hem; when he lowers his shirt he catches Kevin staring, and he just stares straight back, eyebrows raised.

A couple of years ago, that'd be enough - Kevin looking and Russ looking back. Enough for them to head to the car and drive back to Russ' with hardly another word, falling on each other as soon as the door was shut. And they'd been repeating the same pattern, Kevin belatedly realises, ever since he showed up at Russ' hotel room in San Francisco last November. 

That part was never difficult. Like running down the court on a fast break, like connecting on an alley-oop, as instinctive and easy as that - it was always easier to let things happen instead of talking about it. Instead of even thinking of talking about it.

This time is gonna be different. He takes a breath.

"Listen," he says. "You asked me, that time in New Orleans, what I wanted. And I didn't have an answer."

Russ gestures impatiently.

"I'm not sorry about winning the title," he says. Russ rolls his eyes at that; but Kevin just takes a breath, counts a beat, keeps talking. "But I'm sorry about leaving you.

"I know what they say about me leaving, that I got greedy, that I was selfish. The fact is they don't know the half of it. I wanted the ring, the team, the new start, all of that. And after I got all of it, I still wanted more." He swallows hard, his heart pounding. "I still wanted you."

"You still want me?" Russ says after a moment, without any particular inflection, as though he's trying to figure out where all this is leading. He tilts his head. "That it?"

"No," Kevin says. "I want you, and I want to be with you."

It feels like forever but it must only take a few seconds for Russ to react. His expression hardly changes but Kevin knows him well enough to see the moment when the words sink in. 

"You have the worst fucking timing in the world," Russ says flatly. 

"Yeah," Kevin says, ducking his head. "Probably."

"You couldn't have realised this a year ago? Fuck." Russ shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," Kevin says, helplessly. He slumps his shoulders, plucks at the grass. "So I'm too late, huh? Sorry. I knew it was a long shot, I knew it was kinda crazy but I just wanted to -"

"Hold up, I didn't say no," Russ says. 

Kevin's head snaps back up. "You're not angry?"

"Of course I'm angry," Russ says straight away. "We're never winning a title together thanks to you. You sent me a text message when you left. You treated me like a piece of meat. Angry? I'm fucking furious."

Kevin takes a deep breath.

"But I guess I still want to be with you too," Russ says, looking and sounding pissed off about it.

Kevin lets the breath out again. Then laughs, in relief, but also because Russ is who he is, and probably always will be.

"We're not done talking about this. I'm probably gonna be mad about this until I retire," Russ says warningly, but he reaches out and takes Kevin's hand anyway. Right there in the open air. "How the fuck do you think this is gonna work, fool?" he says. The words are harsh but he squeezes Kevin's hand tightly. "We play on different teams now. Which is your fault."

"I know," Kevin says, "I know. I know this is stupid and it's gonna be difficult. But." He shrugs. Can't stop from wanting to smile. "We got all of the offseason to try and work this out."

He still doesn't know how this will turn out. Maybe at the end of it all they'll break up, or they'll get outed by accident, or they'll fuck up their friendship permanently, or Russ will get sick of his shit for the last time. He's still scared it's all gonna go completely wrong and ruin his career.

But at least they'll try. It's worth that much at least. He's sure of that much at least.

"We got a lot to work out then," Russ says, dubiously, but he stands and pulls Kevin to his feet. "We better get started soon."

They start heading back to their cars. "I've got the same house again," Russ says, "if you wanna follow my car."

"Or maybe," Kevin says, and grabs Russell's hand again, in what feels to him like the boldest gesture in the world. Since asking for more has been working so far today, he thinks he might as well keep going. "Maybe you should come back to mine instead. Stay the night, if you want."

"Okay," Russ says, after his surprise fades into something that looks a lot like hope. "Yeah. Let's do that."

**Author's Note:**

> [nbyay](http://nbyay.tumblr.com) is where I collect my NBA emotions


End file.
